I’d love to be able to get ahold of Jake Gyllenhaal. What a minute, let me rephrase that. I mean, of course I’d love to get ahold of him; have you seen those big dreamy eyes and those perfectly pouty lips? So yes, I would LOVE to get a hold of Jake Gyllenhaal, but I’d really like to get in CONTACT with him and tell him thanks for what he’s done. Jake G has really and truly cured me of a long-standing childhood trauma.
I’ve had a little crush on Jake for a while now. When a co-worker heads out for lunch they’ll ask if I need anything, and I’ll reply “number 4 with extra hot peppers, and Jake Gyllenhaal please. Or if they’re out of peppers, just Jake is fine”. I haven’t stalked him in a parking lot, or posted his picture all over my walls, or sent him phone messages with my boobs in the file (because honestly, my boobs are pretty awesome and he should have the opportunity to experience them first hand really). (also I don’t have his number, any help with that is appreciated)
But I happened across this image of Jake and an axe.
Now what the hell is this for?
I suppose a hard core Gyllenhaaler would know exactly what this still is about, or promoting, or how it makes sense in the grand scheme of life. The image on its own is quite worthy of hanging in my room, so maybe I should start a pin-up collection, but the point for me is the axe.
I have written some about my shaky childhood traumas in my blog “Accidental Happiness” via wordpress, so people familiar with my blog know about alcoholism in my family, violence, insanity and other mayhem, and how I have coped with those issues and turned out a relatively sane and happy human being. And they have probably read about the axe.
When I was twelve, someone I adored and trusted completely attacked me with an axe. This person didn’t actually strike or dismember me, but he came within an inch or two of my body while swinging an axe full force, and he was a pretty strong, large man compared to my skinny twelve year old frame. So for the next hundred years of my life I’ve had issues with axes. This fear makes it pretty frustrating to watch movies that fall in the Horror genre, because inevitably there will be an axe involved somewhere. “One out of four horror movies must contain an axe” I think is how the Hollywood handout reads. So movies like the remake of Amityville Horror with Reynolds – beefy and handsome as he is – pretty much stop my brain and I leave the room in terror. And even in movies where the axe is just being used as an axe, to bust something open or to actually chop wood instead of chopping up bodies or opening skulls…I still have the mental freak outs and turn into a pile of weird afterwards.
But here is this beautiful image of Jake: a strong, handsome, interesting, probably kind and thoughtful human being. And he’s holding my arch nemesis, the dreaded axe. This image should give me the throw ups, or send me into hysterics, or unnerve me for a good day or two. But with all of that long-leggedness and fierce manliness he’s got going, he also has this ever-present Jake quality of chill. Good guy. Centered wise being thing. And I find I don’t want to run away in fear. I’m actually wanting to look at this beautiful human being, holding the scariest of things I have ever known, and think of what men are SUPPOSED to be like. Not creepy and dangerous, but glorious and capable. Not violent, chaotic and murderous, but protective, vital and healthy.
This might just be my favorite picture of all time now, of anyone, anywhere – because Jake Gyllenhaal has me thinking in a whole new way…maybe weapons are only as scary as the hands that hold them.
if i were to talk about my killing
what would i say?
what could i tell that would
alleviate the pain of
what song would set me free
and find me flying
what tricky story would wind
its legs around you
and run me far from
the smoking clutches of hell?
if i told you about
the day i was killed
and the way i was killed
truth would leak from this
crafted monastery of deception
and the whole of me
and be lost on the
dead. by denelle hobbs
*note* this is NOT the poem i mentioned in a recent blogpost “This girl might have been lost…” that poem i am still looking for, but found this one today so thought i’d put this up instead
This post is going to go in Mexico’s page, in the Girls section after it appears here.
*Disclaimer* Feel free – anyone who doesn’t understand what the hell I’m doing – to un-follow this blog. It’s potentially going to be weirder than a SI.FI movie (though notably, maybe not as weird as Sharknado; c’mon).
The following posting here is a journal entry from 2009. I have been working on a memoir for some years now, and am plugging away at finishing that off. But have also another book I started working on in 2009, and this entry came up after doing some work for that book.
Generally speaking – at least in my case – having Multiple Personality Disorder … dealing with these aspects of myself just constantly brings up trauma I have been trying to avoid looking at for my entire life. Please bear with annoying repetitive stories.
The people listed in the journal entry are several of my “alters” or other personalities/sides that I have been discovering. Some have given themselves names back when I was a little bitty thing, some I have dolled out a name or position to for want of something else to call them. Several of the names here were found in a coloring book, each alternate person claiming a piece of work by signing their name in cornflower blue or Indian red. Anyway…this is the beginning of Mexico’s story…
i’ve started writing “(potential title of memoir style book here)”.
it smells like shit.
it smells like cat shit outside my window, or else one of my cat’s just shat.
now i have a headache, and my jaw aches, and i had to take 3 ginger chews because of my stomache.
i know i need to look at this stuff. i’m trying. but people get fucking NERVOUS!
today i did a picture project.
i looked through a bunch of old pictures and developed piles that i thought looked like different me’s.
a pile of little ‘tiger’s
a pile of denny’s ( i think it was denny, she’s so cute and jodie foster)
there was nellie bly,
and nervous nellie
and cindy or christy who is really a precious little thing
and the eraser.
my sister even recognized the eraser. i told her it was her, and when she saw the last picture (of the group) she said “yep”.
she could tell that pictures of denny were different than pictures of the other girls, not just because the hair was different, but other things. she totally saw it.
nervous nellie seems to be the only one with a big flat spot on her forehead. i guess i must have wrote the ‘shooting myself’ poem about her. (i’ll try to remember to put this poem up later…)
several pictures that i found i cannot find names for.
and there are names still that i haven’t determined a face for.
scritchy. little bird. sandi.
but most disturbing of all is a singular picture of a girl i didn’t recognize. all of these pictures i’ve seen a million times. i’ve seen them in photo albums while i was growing up, or at gramma’s or uncle john’s, and at my own house once they’d been passed on to me.
so i’ve seen this picture before.
but i don’t know the girl.
everyone else i recognized.
oh i didn’t necessarily know the name of the person, but i recognized the eyes, or the expression, or something about the way the person stood, and i could say – even if i didn’t know the name – here, this picture goes with all of these other pictures of that girl.
there are some pictures that are of no one. there is just no one there, and so it is a generic body or a generic girl that is there. tobie said maybe that is after the eraser has come through. so that might be. or maybe the downloader is a separate person than the eraser, and those are pictures of the downloader. i don’t know.
i just know that this one picture of this one girl sort of shocked me. everyone else rang out in my ‘self’ as a me, something familiar, even if old and lost. something recognizable.
this girl wasn’t recognized.
this girl might have been lost.
perhaps she has disappeared.
perhaps she is the poster girl for all the times i’ve been missing: in pictures at school, when yearbooks get signed, when parts of my life mysteriously go missing. maybe she is one of those milk bottle children who go away and are never seen again.
i don’t know who she is.
but she hurt my heart today.
OK, for those of you who have been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know a few things about it and me:
1. I have Multiple Personality Disorder
2. I have been saying I would post up pictures and details about this interesting condition for a while now
3. I haven’t done that yet.
Well, I moved in May, and since the move I have not been able to find the cord to my scanner that I need to upload pictures. So I’m going to have to either be creative and come up with something different for that, or really comb the boxes (or stores) for what I need. In the meantime, I’m creating a new page called “The Girls”, where I will be keeping information about this conglomeration of quacks known as me. In “The Girls” I will be posting said pictures and information about the various different personalities I deal with and walk among.
*disclosure* There are some psychiatrists who do not believe in Multiple Personality Disorder as a diagnosis. I’m not sure how many this totals up to, but there it is. It IS a weird situation; because what you have on the outside is someone you see at work everyday (or church, or home) who looks like the person you know. But on their end, they might not be the same person you dealt with yesterday. Or even an hour ago.
I myself have gone upstairs to use the bathroom, come back downstairs and been completely dumbfounded by a conversation my sister is having with me. “I don’t have any farking idea what you are talking about”, is my response. But in her reality, we just had a forty-five minute talk about something, and a short pee in the middle shouldn’t normally cause someone to forget the previous discussion of almost an hour. Unless that body that came down the stairs is now holding a different personality.
See? It’s weird. It’s like a SciFi movie. It’s like the body snatchers have taken the person away and replaced it with this OTHER thing.
And that’s true! That’s kind of what happens. For whatever reason, the person that has this disorder will at times become frightened, feel threatened, or have a memory that causes the current personality to “make way” for a new or existing personality to step forward and be in control. It’s very similar to “Chinese Fire-Drill” driving. You are all still in the car together, but at some point you stop the car and change places.
More on this in a later post; this much to say, it’s fine if it is weird, crazy or bizarre sounding to you. It is to me too, and I live with it. And for those doctors that don’t believe in the condition; well, they have that show “Wife Swap”…you could always try a swap and live with someone who “claims” to have the disorder and see what it’s like for a while.
OK, so keep you posted on the coming additions, and the page will be live just EMPTY for now! 😦
except for this 😀
Thank you to all of you who have started following my blog since the post “Flying Ford Anglia” was posted. I’m glad you all enjoyed the post and started following, but a fair warning…you may not know what you’ve gotten yourself into.
I like to write, and I like to imagine myself a writer, and sometime I manage to come up with something that is witty or curious or just off the wall enough to make someone laugh. However, this blog isn’t all full of crafted phrases and thought out ideas; it isn’t always something that deserves a thumbs’ up or a LIKE. It is full of angst and swear words; crabby responses that can’t be voiced in front of a real person; minor ponderings of a soul gone astray. It may interest you, it may not; but I wanted to let you know right off that it is ALL over the place.
But primarily, this blog is about my struggle and/or ease finding happiness in a crazy mixed up world. This world is so chaotic now – what with random terrorism being more common place than shocking, and children mowing down their playmates with semi-automatics. I don’t really know how anyone manages to go through this life without an occasional panic-attack, but I’ve been assured by some that they’ve never experienced one.
Not true for me. In fact, lately I’ve been having all kinds of anxiety. My heart pounds in my throat, and I can’t sleep through the night. I’ve developed dark circles under my eyes, and l have a haunted face that I wear around the house. You probably can’t tell this when I’m at work; I try hard to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. I smile and laugh and offer friendly service. I go out of my way to help or nag, and sometimes complain about people that annoy me. But inside lately is a belly of acidic juices churning to the beat of grumpy music. Inside I’m a bucket of nerves that are like little live wires cut free from the electrical pole, squirming around, sparks a’ flyin. I walk around looking like a normal (albeit odd) adult human being, but inside I’m raw and just a little thing. In fact, I’m scared to death.
I sort of suspect that this is because of the third grade. For those of you new to my scene, I have multiple personality disorder, and I’m struggling with working through that rather large can of worms. Presently the worms are all coming from third grade, I think.
Third grade is an elusive situation. I can’t really remember anything. I have pretty much blocked the whole year out, and know only primary basics; like we lived with my grandmother that year, and my older sister chose to sleep and hang out in the garage, up in a pile of boxes that were stacked on top of each other reaching almost to the top of the garage ceiling. We had moved out of a house we were renting, and whatever we could stuff of our belongings went into my gran’s garage, and my older sister buried herself in there like some kind of little mouse nestled in wood shavings. And I only know this fact because she recently told me about it.
The stuff I know from that year in my life is that I was sleep walking a lot, and the next year I developed an ulcer, chronic headaches, nose bleeds, and asthma. And the fact that pretty much the whole year (minus one or two vague memories) is obliterated from my memory makes me think something was pretty scary at that time in my life.
So all of that to say, right now – with my heightened anxiety over nothing, or little things – I sort of think that third grade personality is wanting to come out, wanting to deal with her stuff.
And it’s freaking me out. I’ve spent my whole life squishing down bad memories and scary monsters. I’ve spent a great many years lying to myself that there are no skeletons in my closet, and bolting it up just to be sure. I am scared to death of the memories of a little nine year old girl making their way into my life, and making a shambles of my existence.
But I guess, to be who I need to be, and to embrace the beauty of the darkest side of my soul, I must.
So hang on if you want, follow if you dare, the ride may be bumpy, I just don’t know…
wow. what ever happened to this thing called LOGIC? or COMMON SENSE? or PEOPLE WHO ARE NOT ASSHOLES AND TRY TO BLAME EVERYONE ELSE FOR ALL THEIR SHORTCOMINGS. (this includes YOU lawyer!!!)
ok, so i feel like barfing my brains and guts out right now.
and yes, technically i AM sick, but that’s not the reason for my hysterical nervous system.
i’ve just emailed an agent, and i may have totally bombed the whole situation. i’ve been wanting to approach this agent for, i don’t know, i think a year. but i’ve been sitting on my ass about it, because my ass is so cute i didn’t know what else to do. and also because i just, i don’t know, i have the normal fear of rejection that often comes with my personality type, which is writer/poet/overly dramatic/worryaholic.
so the smart thing i did was to fire off a stupid email to him. in which i failed to present anything of value, used a casual and inappropriate greeting and informal language, and also did stupid things like say i hope i’ve enticed him with my wit, or something equally moronic.
the good news is that he actually wrote me back! the other good news is that having sent such a lame query, i could quickly let go of the nervousness of being rejected, since it would be almost unimaginable for someone to take me seriously with that email.
but then i responded BACK to him, and actually sent him a few things so he could get an idea of me, and maybe what i want to create.
and now i want to throw up.
i really want to work with THIS agent. i don’t know why, i just have a feeling. so if i screwed it up with my idiotic approach, i’m going to be … well really fucking mad at myself. and thus, my intense desire to puke up my everything….
a big thank you to my dear friend Tony, who just showed me an amazing amount of love and encouragement. i just came out to him as a multiple, and his first reaction wasn’t awkwardness or the icky face. and he didn’t do what another friend did to me recently, which was to say “let me process this and i’ll get back to you” and then i haven’t heard from them since.
i’ve told a number of people now, about my diagnosis, and the reactions are all different. but surprisingly, not many people have straight up shunned me. but Tony was i think the first to just jump into the deep end and start asking questions: when was i diagnosed, how many of me are there, do they all have names, or something like that. and all really good questions, which makes me wonder: why are you working with computers, when you have a really obvious knack for dealing with crazy people?
when dealing with old wounds and injuries, prying them open to expose to the public on a blog is cathartic, therapeutic, if not a little strange. but it’s freeing in it’s anononymity. opening up these issues to family and friends is more dangerous. there is a greater degree of rejection immediately at hand. will my family still love me? will my friends accept me? who can handle the truth, and who will run from this information?
well, Tony, whom i’ve known since i was maybe 10 or so, was supportive, loving, and interested in my story. and i can’t ask for more from a friend.
all in all, a good day